Dolce wandered the aisles of the East Benoni Tow Truck convention. It wasn’t the African sun that was making her sweat like a blind lesbian in a fish and chips shop. No. It was the sheer pleasure of a whole room of mullets, tats and supped-up engines. She saw Frik bending over the lip of his monster, fiddling with the machine in the dark cavity of the truck, the crack of his skinny arse peeking over his stone wash Lee jeans. She recalled the feel of his hands on her koeksuster. She knew he was a bad oke, but fok, there was something about oil under a mans fingernails that made her so hot, she couldn’t see properly.
But the East Benoni Tow Truck Convention wasn’t the time or the place. She hadn’t put on her best bright orange crocs to waste on Frik, who lets face it, had the taste of a Vereeniging Tannie. I mean, come on. Who actually wears red vellies anymore?
Instead, she made her way to the back of the tent. And there he was. D.d.d.d.d.d.ex. Her dream oke. Man, that guy had style. His brilcreamed mullet shone in the dusty light and his tight, black jeans caressed every curve of his meaty thighs. The off-white, grimy vest showed off his brown and white arms to perfection and his winklepickers (with only a slight heel) were scuffed in an utterly sexy way. He cracked a black label and swallowed the whole thing in a minute, then smashed the can flat against his forehead. Dolce nearly came in her 3for2 Mr. Price panties.
She smoothed down her rokkie with sweating palms and pulled her pony tail tighter. With a deep breath, she stuck her boobs out, put one hand on her hip and said;
“Hey, Dexie. Wanna rev my motor?”
*For Dex, who built this